


Contrast

by mechanicMermaid



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Use, Humanstuck, M/M, but its like a platonic thing, but there will be a gamkat scene, im not sure ill add tags as i go, this is davekat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicMermaid/pseuds/mechanicMermaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how a tragic loss in Karkat's family brought he and Dave closer together than he necessarily wanted over the course of a year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Haze and Heartbreak

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I'd like to start off by saying thank you for reading this shit. While this is not my first fanfiction, it is definitely my first multi-chaptered fic and I'm both nervous and excited.  
> One of my head canons for Karkat is that he is Irish in the sense that he lived in Ireland and follows the culture fairly closely as opposed to him just being ginger and having Irish blood. So that's a thing. I would like to incorporate the culture as much as possible in this so I'm doing my research and trying to use it. However, I don't know shit about the Irish culture and the internet sometimes lies and I'm also stupid so if anyone notices anything wrong that I post in regards to that, PLEASE fucking tell me. I don't want someone to get pissed because I represented the culture the wrong way and I don't wanna do that anyway.  
> With that being said, I have no clue how long this will be. I have vague ideas for the first few chapters and the end but that's really it and I'm shit at developing relationships. I will try and post weekly, even if it's just a filler chapter. It's summer break and I don't fucking sleep so I think a chapter a week is possible.  
> This has been a disgustingly long author's note so I'm gonna shut up. Please enjoy my story and PLEASE leave feedback, it would mean a great deal to me as I'm trying to improve my writing.  
> Maimeó (MAM-o) - nickname for a grandmother

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you have a strong love of many things and a strong hatred for many things.  
  
You love anything romantic, you lap that shit up like you are stranded in a desert and it’s a fine ass puddle of water. You hate long lines and crowded places and most people if you’re being honest with yourself. You love trashy indie music and you hate anyone that calls you a hipster for it. You hate loud noises - it’s a wonder you’ve survived in New York this long. You love your grandmother. Well, loved would be the correct term you suppose.  
  
You are 18 and Maimeó Vantas is dead and you’re at her funeral. Dead, you say, instead of “passed on” because that’s a stupid phrase used to sugarcoat pain even though it doesn’t change the fact that she’s fucking gone and you wish everyone would stop acting like it does.  
  
All in all, it is a fucking terrible experience. Stupid religious figures that have never even seen your grandmother alive are speaking for and about her and it sickens you to your core. So instead of listening to the incessant bullshit that falls from their liquor-coated lips, you force your overwhelmed brain to think of all the memories you have of her.  
  
Your grandmother was the strongest person you knew and possibly your favorite family member (sorry mom). To be fair, Maimeó Vantas was your mother for the first seven years of your life. You lived with her in Ireland while your mom and dad were over in New York City securing a home for the family - yourself, your mom, dad, grandmother, and your brother Kankri.  
  
You loved that time with all your heart, they are your best memories. You loved your grandma with all your heart. She was stubborn and bossy and loud and cussed up a storm (at least you know where you got your colorful vernacular from).  She was also a great cook and epitomized the Irish culture which you thought was really cool. Then you think that is a stupid thought because you are also Irish, down to the accent, and though your family lives in New York you still follow most Irish customs.  
  
Memories of those seven years drift back to you and they are filled with the smells of breakfast on Saturday morning and laughter and you, Kankri, and Maimeó Vantas watched cartoons while cuddled together on the couch of the family room. They are filled with wrinkled smiles and hearty laughs and dancing with your Maimeó in the kitchen as she taught you and Kankri to cook. They’re all before Kankri was a piece of shit and you miss that - wanting to punch your brother in the face all the time sucks.  
  
Then, despite all your efforts and all your prayers to a god you don't even believe in, you think of her last week of life, if it can be called that. She might as well have already been dead. The only things keeping her going were the multitude of tubes shoved in her frail figure to help her breathe and eat and make her body work somewhat. It was spent in a sterilized hospital, filled with tears and memories reminisced and you wished that you were dead so that you didn’t have to see her go. You think of all the words you whispered to her when you were alone and of how dead her skin felt in your hand as you held it gently, the skin as fragile as glass.  
  
Somehow, you remember her last day the most clearly. It is only surprising to you because you were stoned out of your fucking mind on something that Gamzee so endearingly described as “miraculously dank kush, brother”. Though he knew you didn’t necessarily care for weed, he rolled you a joint anyway. He was very intuitive, despite his drugged stupor, and he could tell how much everything was weighing on you and how a bunch of negative thoughts were fucking river dancing inside of your skull constantly in a neverending parade of just fucking die Karkat. You never really intended to smoke it but those thoughts became too much that day in the hospital so you hauled ass out of the room and speed walked behind the building where no cars were parked so that you could begrudgingly partake in your marijuana in peace.  
  
Without a second thought, you lit the joint and reveled in the cloudiness that fogged your brain after a few hits. Then your mom called you as you were stubbing out the last bit of it into the concrete and told you to hurry to the room. They were taking Maimeó off of the ventilator.  
  
Through your haze, you recognized the urgency in her voice and knew what it meant. It took a few turn-arounds but you got back to the room as quickly as possible. Your family was huddled around the bed and everyone was waiting anxiously and you thought how fucking morbid it was that they were just staring at their beloved relative, waiting for her to die. Your mom grabbed you and you wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into your chest.  
  
Not wanting your last memory of your grandmother to be her fucking dying, you closed your eyes. Everyone gasped simultaneously after about five minutes. The telltale sound of the ventilator flatlining filled the room. It was over. Your mom was shaking in your arms and you figured you weren’t crying because of the drugs, though no amount of weed could mask the constant pain wracking every part of your body. You felt like you were floating and you wanted to scream and punch the doctors even though you knew there was literally nothing they could do. You were just so angry.  
  
Even though you weren’t crying then, you are definitely crying now. Loud, disgusting sobs that you are incapable to stop escape your small body. You know it probably sounds borderline animalistic but you can’t care. You are tired of caring. It is your mother’s turn to hold you and try to console you. You are cradled against her chest and she is stroking your hair like she did when you were a kid.  
  
You decide you hate funerals the most.


	2. Rage and Ramifications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave is on the receiving end of one of Karkat's outbursts and reacts very differently than Karkat thought he would. John is a traitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all thanks to the people that have read the story so far, it really does mean a fuck ton to me. also this is an apology in advance for how pathetically shitty i am with dialogue and characterization like. its so bad. i give you all permission to punch me in the fucking face as much as you want. i also feel like this is a good time to mention that i dont own anything mentioned in this writing and especially not homestuck. i am so much better than that. anyway yeah enjoy knock your socks off all that jazz

School is certifiably the worst concept you've ever heard of, right after nuclear warfare and My Chemical Romance. There is literally no good that can come from stuffing thousands of hormonal teenagers into the same building. Really you're guaranteed to experience the worst four years of your life unless you are attractive and popular. You are neither of these things.

Even if you weren't grumpy, loud, and vulgar, and everyone in the school was swooning at the mere mention of your name, you doubt you would enjoy your four years of institutionalized hell. Thankfully, you are not left alone to wallow in your intense awkwardness. Friends like Gamzee, John, and Sollux make the bland walls of the building slightly less daunting. You follow them around like a lost puppy usually, namely Gamzee who you have been friends with the longest.  
  
It is the end of August (you've been back at school for a grand total of two weeks) and the only thought that keeps you from gutting yourself is that you are a senior. This is the last year that you have to step foot in this God-forsaken hell hole. That, however, means nothing to you on the Monday that you return, the memory of your grandmother's funeral replaying nonstop in your brain.

The day drags by slower than usual and, as you sit in your geometry class, it is unfeasible that you should be able to focus on angles and congruency. Really, having math first period is hard enough when you haven't just lost your most beloved family member. Now, though, you decide it was a punishment designed by the Devil himself. Not only did he anticipate the death of your grandmother, he made damn sure you would have to sit in math at seven in the morning with the weight of your loss on your shoulders. Thanks Satan!

As your teacher drones on, all you can think about is how you don't want to go home. Being in your family's apartment suffocates you with the knowledge that your grandmother's old room is at the end of the hallway, exactly as she had left it with old photographs on the dresser and piles of books and records scattered about. You can't seem to fathom that you will never be able to cook dinner for her or that the walls will never hear her laugh again. More importantly, _you_ will never hear her laugh again.

Out of your peripheral vision, you notice John giving you a sympathetic look across the aisle. It is the most annoying look you have ever seen make its way to his face and you wish he would just fucking stop. After taking a second to get your shit straight, you give him your most poisonous glare. You really can't bring yourself to feel bad about his pained look as he focuses on the teacher once more. Not wanting to start crying in the middle of class, you begin taking horrible notes and pretend that you understand the angle bisector theorem.

At lunch there is an almost palpable air of uncertainty - everyone can tell that you are upset but no one wants to bring it up for fear that you will lash out at them. You are thankful that you only told Gamzee and John about your grandmother because, if everyone at the table knew, they would all be questioning you and trying to cheer you up which would only make things worse. You really do try to participate in the conversation but it is about a band you don't even like so you decide to withdraw back into your shell and pointedly ignore the pitying glances John throws at you. You are thankful for the knee pats Gamzee gives you occasionally under the table over your lunch hour.

The walk home with John is not as uncomfortable as you predicted it would be, mostly due to the presence of one Dave Strider. Normally you would be opposed to the idea of him walking with you and John - Dave is cocky and obnoxious and you hate him - but he is keeping John distracted so you can only complain so much. You are walking behind them, trying to ignore Dave's annoying-as-shit Texan accent, when he turns 180 degrees to face you. An intense desire for him to fall backwards onto the concrete fills your entire being.

"Hey Karkles, what's got your panties in a knot on this fine Monday? I swear, it's almost as if hordes of small rodents lost their way right up your tiny ass and fermented," he drawls out, somehow managing to sound perfectly emotionless and Texan as shit. It sickens you.

"Fuck off, Strider. In case your Neanderthal brain hasn't managed to pick up on it yet, I am not in the fucking mood."

A smile plays on his thin lips and how the fuck has he not fallen on the ground yet. As you continue on your trek home, he does not shut up. You, however, are all sorts of better than Dave Strider. Therefore, you decide to be the bigger man and ignore him. You are actually starting to feel rather proud of yourself until Dave fucks up.

In your 18 years of life, you have done many things you regret.

You regret shoving Gamzee on the ground one time when you two were 14. You regret the agonizing two months of your life in seven the grade when you went through the dreaded "scene phase". You regret trying to keep an angry snapping turtle as a pet. You do not regret punching Dave fucking Strider in the fucking face.

To be honest, you don't really register when it happens. You know Dave came to a stop, effectively stopping you as well. You know you rolled your eyes and were about to start walking. And you know Dave called you "Karkitty". That's pretty much when the blinding rage exploded in your brain. The metaphorical dam of your emotions fucking crumbled like a Nature Valley granola bar in the hands of a trucker and then you punched Dave in the face.

John rushes over with a "What the hell, dude!" and goes to see if Dave is okay. As much as you hate it, you almost feel bad as Dave tentatively presses his middle and index fingers against the spot under his left eye. Really, it's not like he _knew_ that Karkitty was the nickname given to you by your grandmother. He didn't know shit about your grandmother. You are considering the best way to go about apologizing when he smirks.

Dave _smirks_ and says, as monotonous and stoic as ever, "Damn, Kitty's got claws. Not too shabby dude, but maybe don't turn our wrist so much. We can totally work out the kinks in your strifing one day if you want to man."

That is about the moment you decide to murder him. Murder, however, will get you thrown in prison, so you growl low in your throat and stomp off. Your dramatic exit quickly loses effect when you realize that the three of you live in the same goddamn building and that you are only blocks away from it. It is supremely awkward because they are not far behind you (you can tell they're purposely trying to keep their distance) and you can hear John as he simultaneously reprimands Dave while fussing over him. You know John is only letting you off the hook momentarily and will be blowing up your phone later with text messages. For now, though, you don't have to worry about it.

Thankful for the multiple elevators in the apartment building, you rush into the nearest one so that you can escape the presence of the other two boys. Seething to yourself as you enter your apartment, you dash to your room as quickly as possible so that you can avoid your mother's usual after-school interrogations.

It takes all of the effort you possess not to slam your door because you know that, if you did, your mother would rush to your room and demand to know what was wrong and that just wouldn't do. Losing yourself in a temper tantrum that would make any sensible two-year-old jealous, you kick off your shoes and yank off your bookbag at the same time. Your shoes fly to the other side of the room and crash against the wall. Next, you practically tear your black hoodie off of your body and throw it on top of your bookbag. Your wallet is next and it suffers much the same fate as the hoodie and bookbag.

Out of throwing material, you clomp over to your bed and bury yourself under the excessive amounts of pillows and blankets. At least now you can be comfortable as you mentally curse everything in existence. But mostly Dave. Dave fucking Strider, who you hate most in the world, with his stupid accent and stupid sunglasses and stupid cocky bullshit fucking brain. Who gets punched and then proceeds to give out tips on how to punch? Oh but wait, Dave Strider does.

And! Fucking _and_! You did not receive any emotional relief from your shitty punch, possibly because it was such a shitty punch. You doubt if you even hurt Dave and it only pisses you off more. It isn't even as if you were looking for emotional gratification when it happened, you were just really pissed off, but it wouldn't hurt to be a little less livid because of it. Except now you just feel guilty for punching him because, as annoying as he was being, that was just his usual self. He wasn't trying to antagonize you for the sole purpose of making your life shittier, he was just doing it because he was Dave and that's what Dave does.

So really the whole escapade has you wallowing in your usual vat of self-hatred, only ten times worse. Thanks a fuck ton Karkat. Your phone is lying on your mattress next to you and it interrupts your inner monologue with five little dings that signal John has finally had time to sit down and text you. You glare at your phone with such ferocity because, really, how dare it sit there in its inanimate form, not having to deal with real life and the detriments that accompany it? Fuck you phone. Fuck you to the fiery pits of Hell. You finally give in and read the text messages because you can't ignore John forever.

From: John Egbert  
> hey man so i know you probably don't wanna talk but you just punched someone so i think we should. if you want to i mean.  
> all i'm saying is that i'm here for you, but punching dave also was totally not cool  
> idk i understand you have a lot going on  
> i just want you to know that i'm here for you???  
> also, sorry man, but daves right your punch was kinda weak  
To: John Egbert  
> THANKS FOR THE REASSURANCE ON THE STRICT SHITTINESS OF MY PUNCHES EGBITCH  
> THAT IS REALLY JUST THE ICING ON THE CAKE THAT WAS MY DAY  
> BUT I KNOW YOU'RE HERE FOR ME SHITSTAIN  
> THIS IS JUST SOMETHING I AM THOROUGHLY NOT READY TO HAVE A CONVERSATION ABOUT  
From: John Egbert  
> i understand  
> i'm sorry by the way. i know that doesn't change anything but...

You stare at your phone, at a loss for what to respond with, when it dings again.

From: John Egbert  
> also i may have given dave your phone number...  
To: John Egbert  
> JOHN EGBERT YOU FUCKING TRAITOR  
> I AM MAGELLAN AND YOU ARE MY CREW  
> YOU FUCKING BUCK TOOTHED DISGRACE FOR A FRIEND  
> GO SUCK A PLETHORA OF DICKS  
From: John Egbert  
> sorry!

You groan loudly, face buried in a pillow, deciding that you should change your phone number as soon as possible. Of all the things in the world that could make your day any shittier, knowing that your phone number is no longer safe in the hands of John is one of them. With a sigh, you sit up and grab your laptop off of the ground in the hopes of having a Dane Cook marathon.

About half way through _Good Luck Chuck_ you receive a text from an unknown number. It completely ruins all of the cinematic goodness you have just experienced.

From: 2129177183  
> karkat my main man  
> ok youre more like  
> my tertiary man  
> but still you get my drift  
To: 2129177183  
> WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT STRIDER  
> IF YOU RECALL I PUNCHED YOU IN THE FACE BARELY TWO HOURS AGO  
> DID THE IMPLICATIONS OF THAT SEEM TO ESCAPE YOUR PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A BRAIN?  
> IF SO ALLOW ME TO SPELL IT OUT  
> I DO NOT WISH TO HAVE CONTACT WITH YOU IN ANY SHAPE OR FORM  
> I DO NOT WISH TO HAVE PHYSICAL, METAPHORICAL, OR EVEN METAPHYSICAL INTERACTIONS WITH YOU  
From: 2129177183  
> ok cool but that was a shitty punch  
> like i almost forgot it was a thing that happened until you brought that shit up  
> now that you mention it my face kind of hurts  
> lol naw i said that to make your sorry ass feel better  
> but im sorry for whatever i said that made you blow your little irish top  
To: 2129177183  
> ...  
> WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU APOLOGIZING TO ME?  
From: 2129177183  
> because man egbert said you were going through some shit  
> not any specific shit mind you just some shit that definitely exists so dont go getting all pissy with him  
> though if you do punch him try and knock out his fucking buck teeth ok theyre ridiculous

That text earns a chuckle from you.  
  
To: 2129177183  
> THEY ARE FUCKING DISAPPOINTMENTS THAT LEND ME TO BELIEVE HIS BODY IS SUBCONSCIOUSLY OVERCOMPENSATING  
> THERE IS INDEED SOME SHIT THAT IS PRECISELY *NONE* OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS  
> THANK YOU FOR APOLOGIZING THOUGH. I WOULD APOLOGIZE BUT SINCE EVERYONE SEEMS TO AGREE THAT MY PUNCH WAS THE WORST OF ALL THE PUNCHES I REALLY DON'T SEE THE POINT  
From: 2129177183  
> naw not the worst dude  
> maybe like  
> the second worst  
> i forgive you anyway  
> as long as you didnt hurt the merchandise  
To: 2129177183  
> THIS THREAD OF TEXT MESSAGES IS BECOMING UNCOMFORTABLY EMOTIONAL SO I AM GOING TO END IT RIGHT HERE  
From: 2129177183  
> yeah whatever end that shit like a lame ass rap  
> abruptly and with no remorse

You read over the short conversation once more before deciding to save his number into your phone (obviously with no intention of ever contacting him again). As you finish _Good Luck Chuck_ , you send a telepathic 'thank you' to John for being a traitorous bitch.

 


	3. Maybes and Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Dave isn't so terrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im really sorry this is like 4 days late ive had a lot of shit going on recently. im also sorry for how terrible this chapter is going to be. if anyone wants to contact me to ask questions or something my tumblr is big-daddy-frost

You wake up the next morning dreading school for multiple reasons, the biggest one being that it's school. That alone is enough to make you want to hit the snooze button on your alarm clock with enough force to break it. Then, as you're rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and mentally preparing for the day, you remember what happened the day before and a crushing guilt settles over you. Okay, maybe not _crushing_ because the jackass totally deserved it but you do feel bad. Though you're an angry person you are not necessarily violent towards other people, even if they are dumb, cocky, shitheads who don't know when to shut their mouths.

Getting ready that morning passes by in a weird haze of worry and teenage angst that you really did not anticipate. The fact that you care so much frustrates you to no end. It frustrates you so much so that you pore all of your focus into your classes to keep your anxiety at bay. It works pretty well but then you're at the lunch table and Dave is talking to Terezi, a purple bruise coloring part of his cheekbone. Biting your lip, you sit down and ignore the raised eyebrow Dave throws your way.

"Who sat down?" Terezi asks, cutting her rant off mid-sentence.

"No one, just Karbaby," Dave says. It is really hard to continue to feel bad when Dave says shit like that, but your guilt never ceases to amaze you.

Terezi grins slightly to the left of you. "Hey Karkat."

"Hi," you grumble. You sigh as she begins talking to Dave again and rest your head in your palm.

Everyone begins to sit down after that, which is how it usually goes. John sits to your left, between you and Dave, and Gamzee files in to your right. He gives you a look and you can practically hear the concerned thoughts running through his doped up head. Kanaya and Rose are the last to arrive and Kanaya is barely sitting before she looks at Dave and registers the bruise.

"Dave, what on Earth happened to your face?"

He smiles, breaking away from his conversation with Terezi once again, and you imagine there is probably amusement in his eyes.

"This beauty? Why don't you ask our angry little friend over there," he says, staring pointedly at you. All heads turn to look at your hunched form almost immediately and you'd probably think it was funny in any other circumstance.

"Did you hit Dave?" Kanaya demands, her voice in chastising mother mode. Shit.

"I mean, not well," you answer quietly.

"Oh don't be modest Karkat," Dave says with all too much emotion in his voice. It makes you intensely uncomfortable.

But then he proceeds to tell the most farfetched story of yesterday, detailing how he deserved it because he was rude and completely uncool and how hard you punched him. It was basically the complete opposite of how it actually happened. John is staring at him with his mouth wide open but he doesn't correct Dave. The blond finishes his story with a satisfied slurp from his juice box and the table is silent.

"Holy shit Karkat, you're a beast!" Terezi exclaims, her voice all too loud as usual. 

You shake your head, grab your bookbag, and leave the table.

It strikes you how much you never think out your escapes because, as you turn the corner to leave the cafeteria, you realize you have no where to go. You wander around the bottom level of the school and end up in the bathroom. You are so lame. You are painfully lame. Only a really lame person would find themselves sitting on a dirty toilet in a dirty stall holding back tears over basically nothing. Maybe it's because how disappointed Kanaya seemed. Maybe it's everything building up again and you should just cry and be done with it. Maybe you're just a crybaby. Whatever the reason, you're (begrudgingly) glad that Dave genuinely seemed to not care. Maybe you're a little thankful that he played off the whole incident in a way that made you seem a lot less like the whiny bitch you are. Maybe that brings a smile to your face.

~

You're sitting on the front steps of the school, mindlessly rolling a rock between your palms, when you hear Dave's monotone voice behind you.

"Care to escort a lady home?"

You roll your eyes and definitely do not under any circumstances smile for a millisecond before turning around to face him.

"Where the fuck is John?"

He shrugs. "Had a dentist appointment or something, I dunno. I don't keep tabs on the guy. You didn't answer my question and I'm anxiously awaiting your response."

You stare at him for a beat before dropping the rock and standing up. "Whatever, fine, but you're not holding onto my arm."

"Damn, way to let a guy down," he retorts.

Neither of you speak for approximately three minutes after that, until Dave breaks the silence.

"Why'd you do it?"

"Dave, I've done a lot of shit. You have to be more specific."

"Why did you punch me, dumbass, what else would I be talking about."

Oh. Maybe you should ignore that question.

"Why did you lie about what happened?"

"I asked you first."

You worry your lip between your teeth, wondering how exactly to respond.

"Come on, I wanna know how to avoid another beat down from you. Purple really doesn't compliment my skin tone."

You groan because, really, you want to avoid telling Dave you hit him because he called you a nickname.

"You called me Karkitty. That's what my grandmother used to call me. She died last Thursday. The funeral was Sunday."

The sentences come out clipped and you're staring resolutely ahead of you. Dave, for once, seems to not know what to say. It brings great joy to your heart.

"Were you two close?"

You nod. "She was like my mom for about seven years, before my family here from Ireland. She was the best."

Dave doesn't say that he's "sorry for your loss" or some other bullshit, obligatory phrase. He doesn't try to console you with a pat on the shoulder. He doesn't look at you pityingly.

"I lied about what happened because I was bored. I also figured that I've saved up so much cool manliness that I could sacrifice a little bit to save your wimpy ass from utter humiliation from our friends."

"Thanks but I don't need you to fucking 'save me from humiliation'."

He shrugs and lets the rest of the walk continue in silence, the only sound between you two the scuffing of your shoes. The silence is a constant until you part ways. Dave looks at you and gives you a casual nod. "Bye man," is all he says as he exits the elevator.

Maybe Dave Strider isn't so terrible.

~

That Thursday you are standing behind the checkout counter of Kat's Music Store, Moose Blood playing quietly in the background, waiting to either get a customer or go home. Thursdays are always relatively dead and they are most definitely your least favorite days to work even though you take all of the shifts. You usually spend most of your it eagerly awaiting 1 a.m. while fixing crooked CD's, making sure the bathroom is clean, constantly changing the music, and refraining from slamming your head against the counter.

You must have been nice to the gods lately because the little bell to the door dings at 10:28.

"Welcome to Kat's Music," you bite out in a less than friendly way. The phrase is stupid but mandatory.

Your whole night takes a turn when you look up to see Dave approaching the counter.

"Great, it's you," you say in a way that would suggest you're more disappointed than you actually are.

"Nice to see you too babe," he says, leaning against the counter. "You work here?"

"That is literally the stupidest question I have ever had to listen to."

"Right, I guess shoulda taken that obnoxious ass shirt as a sign that you're employed here," he bites back immediately.

Okay, so, you're well aware that the candy-apple red shirt clashes terribly with your ginger hair. You have resented the garment since day one, in fact, and even tried to get a different color. No dice, however. Your manager apparently did not give a fuck about how stupid he made his employees look. You would never dream of admitting any of this to Dave though, partly because of pride and partly because of embarrassment.

"Strider, don't fuck with my uniform. Besides, I'm not the one that wears ridiculous shades literally everywhere. I mean, have you not noticed that you're inside? Or are you just trying to win the award for Biggest Fucking Douche Ever to Walk this Planet? You'll be glad to hear that you're fucking winning. You are wiping the floor with your competition."

"Vantas, don't fuck with my shades. At least I look cool."

"I'm getting paid."

"I'm keeping my rep."

"No one gives a fuck about your cool guy facade."

"I's not a facade. It's okay, I wouldn't expect people lesser than me, such as yourself, to understand."

"Get the fuck out my store."

Dave raised an eyebrow. "Someone's a bad employee."

"Yeah, I know. I'm pretty sure I only got hired because my name has part of the store's name in it," you admit.

"Nah, I can't imagine a bundle of joy like yourself being turned downed for a job," he says, his voice laced with sarcasm.

"Are you gonna look at the goddamn music or just annoy the piss out of me?" you finally bark at him.

"Is that any way to treat a customer?" he asks, faking hurt. Even as he says it, though, he is beginning to walk in the direction of the aisle labeled "rap/hip hop".

You try not to watch him as he browses through the section, sometimes picking up a CD and examining it. His expression never really changes, even when he finds a disc he decides to purchase. His poker face remains in place, thin lips pressed into a line. Occasionally he'll raise his eyebrow or make a face in disgust and you find yourself smiling with amusement every time he does. In the end, he puts all but one CD up. You notice that he puts them where he found them like any good customer would.

He finally strolls up to the counter again, taking his sweet time about his movements, and places his selection on the counter. The CD ihechose is entitled 'Food for the Gods' by an artist called Matre. Of course Dave would listen to shitty obscure rappers. You commit the title to memory. Maybe you'll listen to it so you can text Dave and tell him how shitty his taste in music is.

"How long have you worked here?" he asks as he swipes his card.

"Sign here. A few months," you reply, holding out his receipt to him.

As he signs, you bag his CD and hold it out to him. When he has his bag, credit card, and a copy of the receipt you expect him walk out the door, only sparing a nod to you, but he puts the bag back on the counter.

"Why'd you wanna work here?" he asks.

You raise an eyebrow because, really, that is probably the most mundane thing you have ever heard him say. He sounds genuinely curious though, so you humor him.

"It was the only place that would hire me. As it turns out, being a generally grumpy person that is hard to talk to and cusses more often than not does not make people want to hire your ass. I don't mind working here though."

He smiles a little bit at that. "True. You're a hard worker though, bad mouth or not."

"Uh, thanks," you say, looking down because no way in hell is he going to see that you are blushing. You would rather die. In fact, you feel like you might.

The two of you talk for a while after that, about a lot of things. For once, he does most of the talking. You only really interject to insult him or retort when he teases you. You learn many things about him. Some of the things you learn include, but are not limited to: he moved from Texas about the time you moved from Ireland, he was raised by his vaguely sociopathic brother, he is scared of a thing called smuppets. He really only listens to rap and classical music, which pleasantly surprises you.

He tells you about the music he creates and how he sometimes performs at a club called God Tier and how that is really the only time he ever feels comfortable. He talks about his music differently than how he talks about anything else. His voice sounds lighter, his countenance is more relaxed. He talks about music the way people talk to their lover at four in the morning, intimately and with nothing but love and adoration. You think maybe you could listen to him talk about his music forever.

Around 12:30, you are in a heated debate with him about Dane Cook and the importance of apples. Neither of the subjects are related but you guys are troopers and manage to incorporate both into the same argument. Then you are interrupted by a couple of hipsters and you want them to materialize into nothing. A smile plays on the corner of Dave's lips and he raises his eyebrows because, when you yell out, "Welcome to Kat's Music," your voice is filled with such venom that you are surprised the two unwelcome customers don't haul ass. That was what you had been hoping for.

"Well, I guess I'm gonna head out. See ya Karkles," he says coolly as he picks up his bag.

"See ya," you mumble to him.

You are still staring at his retreating form when he turns his head back to glance at you. You quickly look away and maybe he smirks at that and maybe it causes your blush to strengthen as you cross your arms and maybe that makes you smile just a little bit. Maybe you find the album 'Food for the Gods' in the music directory and allow it to play over the sound of the customers arguing about which terrible indie CD to buy.

Maybe you really enjoy it.


	4. Storms and Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thunder sucks and so does John's taste in movies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so listen. im really sorry that this chapter is practically two weeks late. ive had a lot of not-good shit going on but im trying to like catch up and be a chapter ahead in google docs so that i can just post the chapter and not stress about having to write it each week.   
> with that said, my friend and i are kind of collaborating on something. she wants to draw fanart for this so were gonna skype tonight hopefully and get a basic concept down so thats pretty exciting. idk i hope you enjoy this chapter and everything. thank you for reading, it really means a lot to me.

You are weak. You are weak and you hate yourself. You cannot say no to John's toothy grin and annoying, whiny voice when he pleads with you to do things like bake three batches of cookies or 'stay over, please Karkat?'. Normally you have no qualms about spending time with John - he's dorky and entertaining and one of your best friends, which you guess counts for something - but you know that staying over while his dad is gone equates to 'please stay over and watch shitty movies with me that I know you hate Karkat?'. But you are weak and promised John that you would come over after your shift ends on Saturday and you are thoroughly not looking forward to it.

To: Dave Strider  
> HEY SHIT FOR BRAINS ARE YOU WALKING ME HOME TODAY

You quickly type out your incredibly polite text message to Dave and put away your phone, even though no one is there to get you in trouble. You and Dave's relationship over the past two weeks has gotten extremely close, practically over night. The two of you text back and forth all day, talking about everything and nothing. Sometimes he sends you clips of music he's working on and, despite how much you try to deny it, you love it when he does - he's unbelievably talented and his voice is magnificent, even when he's just rapping. He has also memorized your work schedule. It no longer surprises you when he saunters in twenty minutes before your shift is over, assuming he's already out doing whatever Dave does, and walks you home. You'd even go so far as saying you look forward to it.

You wouldn't necessarily call your relationship with him amicable because your conversations are filled with biting insults and crude nicknames. You suppose that it's amicable in your own special way. Dave can handle whatever rude comments you dish out and vice versa. It's honestly kind of refreshing knowing that, whatever you say, you won't hurt his feelings. In fact, it is much more likely that he will come back with something nastier and the pattern will continue.

You are tapping your foot rather aggressively on the wooden floor, waiting for your phone to vibrate or ring or _something_. None of these things things happen. In what Dave probably thinks is a clever response, he doesn't answer your text but instead enters the shop, possibly the slightest hint of his trademark cocky smirk on his face, and makes his way to the counter.

"Hey worker bitch, I need help finding something," he deadpans, leaning against the counter because, ya know, he just always has to be the cool guy.

"My manager isn't here, douche lord. You really are a terrible customer, do you know that?"

He nods and doesn't say anymore which is slightly disquieting. The two of you stand in silence for all of two minutes, you looking at Dave and waiting for him to do something and him playing with his cellphone, before he speaks again.

"You going to John's shindig tonight?"

"Yeah, I really don't want to," you groan. "His movie taste is the worst."

"Okay but all you watch are shitty rom-coms, you don't have the best track record either."

"Excuse me David, are you _defending_ the fucking monstrosity that is John Egbert's movie collection? The amount of Nic Cage movies he owns is obscene, borderline obsessive."

Dave snorts. "Borderline? Honey, he hopped that border right into the US a few years ago. He's in love with the guy."

With that, he slowly pushes himself off the counter and walks away to go look at CD's, even though nothing has changed since Thursday when he walked you home. All of his moves are very languid, as if he no where to be ever. He has all the time in the world. It's very relaxing watching him just exist and do the most mundane things - he's different from all of the rushed New Yorkers outside that hurry everywhere all the fucking time, probably even in their houses. It's almost like time slows down with Dave, in the least cheesiest way possible.

It's 5:25 when Vriska, your coworker, walks into the store. You roll your eyes and huff because she's kind of a bitch and very manipulative.

"What Karkat, no hello for me?" she says when she gets behind the counter. She's half-smiling, half-sneering at you and you resist the urge to fucking throw something at her in an attempt to wipe that look off her face.

"I'm going in the back," you mumble.

She blows you a kiss and it is so frustrating have to work with her. You don't know why John likes her, or why anyone likes her for that matter, but it is what it is. You make your way to the break room and clock out at exactly 5:30. Because you're a good fucking person, you clock Vriska in at 5:25 (knowing her, she probably forgot). The break room is kind of pathetic honestly. There's a coffee maker from God-knows-when that no one really uses, a ratty old couch, a cabinet with lockers, and a rickety table.

With a sigh, you fish out your key and open up your locker to reveal your bookbag, all packed and ready for your sleepover. You made sure to pack a few novels because it's going to be a long night and you definitely need some way to entertain yourself.

Dave is standing by the entrance to the store when you walk out, hands in his pockets and an impassive expression on his face. He's holding a bag so you figure something not in the rap section piqued his interest.

"Hey sweetheart, how was work?" he says when you get close enough.

You hear Vriska snicker and a blush spreads up to your cheeks, probably definitely clashing obscenely with your hair.

"Shut the fuck up, _darling_ _,_ let's go," you say, grabbing him by the wrist and shoving the door open with more force than necessary.

You hear Vriska call out, "Use protection, boys!" and, really, her voice is too sweet for someone who's such a _bitch_.

You let Dave's wrist go as soon as the door closes and you're definitely still blushing.

"What'd you buy?" you ask in a futile attempt to make your heart calm the fuck down.

"1989."

"Wait, like. Taylor Swift 1989?"

Dave nods affirmation. You laugh (even though you have no right to because that album is on your phone and you danced around this morning singing 'Bad Blood' while you got ready for work).

"Irony," is all he says in response to your laughter and, okay, you know he likes irony and all but you get the distinct impression that he just enjoys Taylor Swift. Which is fine, she's totally a goddess and (assuming you weren't painfully gay) you would probably get off to her.

Something about Dave seems off. He doesn't try and badger you or get under your skin. In fact, he doesn't do _anything_. Usually you enjoy silence around people - to you, there is never really an awkward silence - but you think you really understand the term now. The air seems slightly tense and you don't really know why. In all honesty, you're probably just looking into things. You know Dave isn't really a big talker in general and sometimes he just doesn't want to expend the energy it takes to have a conversation. He also doesn't believe in awkward silences and doesn't care if the two of you are Skyping and there's a lapse in conversation. It's one of the few (read: many) things you enjoy him

You don't bother him as you normally would (it's good to choose your battles carefully) but rather, pay attention to your surroundings. You've always loved walks, especially in New York City, because you never really know what you'll see. In Kerry it was pretty much just grass and the beach which you can only appreciate for so long, but in New York everything seems like a surprise. For example, you just passed a dog pissing on another dog. That was cool.

Despite your general hatred of crowds and people and noise, which is really all New York is, you find great solitude in the fifteen minute walk from your job to your apartment building. The route that you normally take is lined with restaurants and coffee shops so it doesn't smell too bad either. The weather is relatively nice today, not too muggy or hot, and overall you would rate this particular walk a solid 8.5 out of 10 with points deducted for Dave worrying you and the guy that almost spilled his coffee on you because he wasn't paying attention to where the fuck h was walking, too enamored in a phone call. 

John answers the door after your first knock, almost as if he were waiting which he probably was.

"Hi!" he says way too excitedly and moves to let the two of you in. He's, unsurprisingly, the only one looking forward to tonight. There's a giant pallet made on the floor in front of the television and Dave doesn't even take off his shoes after walking in, just heads straight for the pallet and flops face-first onto it. You and John exchange looks. 

"Is he okay?" you whisper to him. John shrugs, goes to sit down next to Dave, and pats his back a few times.

"It'll be alright buddy, I know. You're too pumped for tonight, I get it," he says, grinning down at the back of Dave's head. Dave just groans at him.

You roll your eyes and stop giving them the time of day. They don't deserve it honestly. They are so upsettingly boring. You find more entertainment taking off your shoes and putting down your stuff than you do watching them interact. 

When you finally join them on the pallet, after going to the bathroom to change into pajamas, pee, and waste time, Dave is sitting up and John is putting _National Treasure_ into the DVD player. Dave is to the left of the pallet and you sit in the middle, next to him. John gives you a _look_ that you try very hard to ignore (he seems to think that there is something more than friendly going on between you two and Dave, which is ludicrous. You've only liked Dave slightly more for, at most, two and a half weeks).

The movie starts and John keeps up his commentary, as usual. You give props to the kid - he seems to have an arsenal of random facts about every Nic Cage movie. You don't think you've ever heard him repeat one. But, props be damned, the guy never shuts up. If someone were watching this for the first time and, god forbid, _wanted_ to pay attention and try to understand what was going on they would be shit out of luck because John will not shut his fucking trap. He just sits there, his mouth never stopping, saying shit like 'ooh, this is the part where-'. Insert a full fucking summary about the next scene. It's terrible.

According to John, the three of you are "balls deep in the heart of the plot" (which really sounds unhealthy and anatomically impossible) when you decide enough is enough and practically run to the kitchen. You aren't even hungry, you just need to not be in there as long as possible, so you busy yourself with making popcorn and getting water. You pay very close attention to how much salt and pepper you add and mix it with such fucking care, taking your sweet time about bouncing the popcorn around in the bowl so that the salt and pepper grains are spread about perfectly.

After ten minutes you decide you should probably return. When you walk back in the living room, John is sat criss-cross, leaning towards the television, mouth opened slightly. He is so painfully into it which is the exact opposite of Dave who is leaning against the couch, arms crossed, not even looking at the TV. When you step over John he hits you in the leg because you aren't going fast enough and this is the best part and you're blocking his view and fuck you John.

Dave snickers and you turn your murderous glare to him as you sit down. He holds up his hands in the universal 'whatever dude' signal and you turn your attention back to the screen because there is literally nothing else to pay attention to. The bowl is in your lap and you're really the only one eating. Occasionally, John will grab a handful and chew it as obnoxiously as fucking possible. Everything is going as great as can be until your life become so stupidly cliche that you want to scream.

You and Dave reach for popcorn at the same time and your hands brush against each other. They only touch for maybe two seconds but it's enough to make blood rush straight into your face. You look at Dave out of the corner of your eye and it's not the first time that you want to knock his stupid shades off of his stupid face because you can't see anything. In the light, you can usually see the slightest outline of his eyes through the thick plastic but it's dark and pointless to even try.

Okay, you're blowing this way out of proportion. This isn't one of your rom-coms where the love interests brush hands reaching for popcorn and sparks fly upon contact and they look at each other shyly and kiss, the movie completely forgotten. This is real life where you are being forced to watch a shitty movie and you happened to touch hands with a guy that pisses you off no matter how friendly the two of you have become and it doesn't mean anything and you do not wish it did. You totally ignore how Dave shifts closer to you by a fraction of an inch. You totally do not focus on the heat that you feel from him for the rest of the movie. 

John makes you three sit through _City of Angels_ and _Ghost_ _Rider_ before it starts raining. Your immediate thought is 'fuck' but then you force yourself to calm down. Rain isn't bad. Rain is great, actually, as long as there's no lightning or thunder and it doesn't rain for a long time. You console yourself by thinking that there hasn't been any thunder or lightning and that no thunderstorm warnings have been made today. It will rain for ten minutes and stop and there will not be scary lightning or thunder and you will not look like a total piss baby in front of your friends.

Boy were you wrong. It rains calmly throughout the rest of _Ghost Rider_ and that's fine. But then there is a crack of thunder of Thor would be jealous of. Thankfully, both you and Dave jump. You look over to John's side though and the fucker is sleeping. How. How the fuck is that even possible. You are so irrationally angry that John was tired and went to sleep that you feel like you might explode.

"Well, on that note, fuck this," Dave says suddenly. "Goodnight."

And Dave rolls onto his side, his back facing you, and you are left sitting in the middle, knees brought up to your chest, trying not to cry. You take a deep breath and slide under the covers. You don't really know what to do because 1) you are scared out of your wits, and 2) you usually sleep on your side facing Dave but you don't want to do that because it seems creepy. You end up lying on your back, stiff as a fucking board, clutching the covers to your chin, and wait for the next crack of thunder.

Oh, there it is. It is loud and terrifying and you force your eyes shut and whimper and fucking pray that Dave falls asleep quickly. A second crack follows not long after and you whimper again, a pitiful noise in the back of your throat. To your horror, Dave sits up. He still has his shades on and he's just looking at you and his face is illuminated by a flash of lightning every few seconds or so. Through your terrified haze, you think that it's very beautiful the way the striking light looks jumping across his tanned skin. But then there's more thunder and you squeeze your eyes shut and wait for it to stop. Your breathing has sped up considerably and Dave finally speaks, his voice gentle rather than bored and emotionless.

"Come here."

"What?" you choke out.

He probably rolls his eyes and your heart rate quickens _even more_ as he lays back down, reaches over, and pulls you against his chest. It is so painfully obvious how little he engages in physical contact - he is rigid and awkward, keeping you pressed into him. It's really uncomfortable but you appreciate the gesture a lot.

More thunder. More whimpering. Your right hand flies to grip his shirt, your right leg slings across his legs, and you bury your head under his neck. Your eyes are shut and you intend to keep them that way. It's very difficult, but you try to focus on what is immediately around you - so, in essence, Dave. He is extremely warm. He smells like vanilla and apples. His hand is stroking your back, trying to make you stop shaking. Your left hand is trapped between both of your bodies and you can feel it going numb.

The next bout of thunder is slightly easier to deal with. Dave brings his other hand around you, forcing the two of you closer together, so you think about that instead of the rain pounding against the windows. Dave is rubbing calming circles onto your back, slow and steady, and his touch is burning through your shirt, consuming you. He breathes deeply and evenly, making your head rise and fall with it, and it's all very relaxing.

Eventually the storm slows and stop all together. Dave is still cradling you in his arms, staring down at your sleeping figure with a gentle, barely-there smile lighting up his face.


	5. Sweet and Not-So-Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens (and so do some feelings).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I'm the worst. Have you noticed? Because I have. It has been at least five months since I've updated and I am so painfully sorry. But fuck it let's keep going. Kudos and critiquing is, as always, much appreciated.

Two weeks have passed since the Storm Incident and neither you nor Dave have made an effort to talk about it. Sadly, though, that does not mean that you did not spend a solid hour debating the Storm Incident when you got home the following day. Because you did. You fucking hate yourself. Your conclusion, in the end, was that Dave might be a human that is capable of empathy and you _guess_  that the two of you are friends and he might have wanted to help you. In all honesty he probably just didn't want to listen to your pathetic fucking noises all night. So that's that.

At least that's what you _thought_ but it's two weeks later and you're playing piano when your phone rings. Dave has never called you so you figure that it must be important and you answer immediately.

"Hello?"

"Go on a date with me."

Oh.

"Please," Dave adds as an afterthought.

Leave to Dave fucking Strider to be that fucking blunt.

Holy shit.

Maybe you should answer him.

"Do I have a choice?" you ask, trying to be coy but there is nothing coy about the way your voice cracks.

Dave's chuckle fills your ears and you're light headed from it but really it's from not breathing for the past forty five seconds. You should do that breathing thing.

"O'course you do Karkles. I just find the direct approach to heed the best results, ya know? So is that a yes?" Dave sounds _excited_ and you want to die.

"Yeah Dave, sure. I'll, um, go on a date with you. I guess." You're really fucking smooth, Karkat.

"Great," he says and you can hear the fucking smile in his voice and you wonder briefly if he is not high on the most pristine meth that Walter White and Co. have to offer.

"So what's up?" he asks after a few seconds of silence.

"I was just playing piano and now I'm being forced into going on a shitty date with a shit lord."

He laughs sort of, it's really more of a sudden exhale, but it's cute all the same. "That's the shit lord to you, madam. You never told me you played piano, what the hell. Why aren't we jamming?"

"Because I play classical, not whatever the fuck it is you call music."

He laughs again and you realize how hard you're grinning. It's cheesy but you have never realized how intimate phone calls really are - you can hear his breathing and his weird laughs and you know that his words are for only your ears and it makes you very happy.

You two bicker for a few minutes about your differing music tastes and then Dave just stops talking for a moment, not retorting wittily to your previous not-as-witty retort.

Then, suddenly, "Can I hear you? Play, I mean. One day. Preferably now."

It takes a second for you to comprehend and then you laugh loudly because, really, of all the things that would make Dave nervous it's asking if he can hear you play piano. What the fuck.

"Yeah Dave, of course," you say rather quietly, almost in a whisper, a smile plastered onto your face.

The two of you hang up after you tell him your apartment number and you let your head fall onto the keys, giggling at the ensuing cacophony. It explains your insides rather well, actually - your stomach is in knots and your head is both swimming and pounding and you wonder if all of that was some twisted dream. Except it wasn't because you hear the doorbell a couple of minutes later and _shit._ You're in pajama pants with crabs all over them and a ratty old Batman T-shirt but Dave is here and you can't change. The doorbell buzzes obnoxiously again.

Dave is as stunning as he usually is and your heart stops when you open the door. It's weird that you don't really have to vehemently deny your budding feelings for him within your brain anymore so you openly accept how gorgeous he looks, all tan gangly limbs and his stupid fucking joggers. He's smiling at you, as much as Dave smiles at least. His mouth is turned up at both corners and that's an accomplishment.

"Hi," you breathe out, not knowing what the fuck to do.

"Hey hot stuff. We just gonna stand here or are you gonna lay down some sick beats for me?"

You scoff and let him come in. "Yeah fucker, as 'sick' as Mozart can get," you throw at him as you make your way back to your upright piano. It's kind of crammed in the corner of your family's dining room but it's your prized possession and very beautiful and you can't wait to show it off to Dave. He pulls a chair from the dining room table and sits as close as he can to you as you settle yourself, your fingers easily positioning themselves over the keys. You take a look at Dave who is staring intensely at you, even through the shades, and you take a shaky breathe. Then you play.

You play Lacrimosa from Mozart's Requiem in D Minor. It's three and a half minutes of gentle music flowing from your fingertips because you have this memorized, every dynamic second nature to you. You quickly ease up, your initial nervousness draining out of your body, and let yourself melt into the music. You know you probably look ridiculous because you've recorded yourself playing this piece and you know what you look like - you hunch in on yourself when the music is especially quiet or bounce as your feet maneuver the pedals or you sway dramatically with the rhythm and it can't be too pleasant for Dave to watch.

All too soon you are holding out the last chord. The music settles, finally stopping altogether, and then it's quiet. Tentatively, you look up at Dave. As usual, you are angry at his shades because you can't tell what he's thinking. Then, _finally_ , a smile spreads over his face, a genuine fucking smile that is all slightly-crooked teeth and stretching lips and you would probably do anything to see that smile every day. You smile back at him in the same fashion, a dangerous blush making its way to your neck and face. You can't even make yourself care about it.

"I really wanna kiss you," he finally says, his voice hushed.

He slowly leans in and your lips meet. It's sweet and simple and you are soaring.

~

That was Sunday. You and Dave agreed to go out the following Saturday to some undisclosed location - Dave wants it to be a surprise and that is both infuriating and adorable. You're so fucked.

It's currently Friday, the day before your date, and you're sitting through a rather boring shift for a Friday night. Usually Friday's bring in an array of people who have loud, vaguely interesting conversations that you can make fun of them for in your mind. Tonight, however, has been unusually slow and you sigh heavily, resting your head in your palm.

Nine o'clock finally rolls around and you try not to be disappointed at Dave's absence - he had begun walking you home nightly but it wasn't a set in stone thing so you guess you can't hold it against him for not being there. But then you walk out of the record shop and suddenly you can _very much so_ hold it against him for not being there.

Dave is across the street staring at a window display with a girl hanging onto his arm, nuzzling into his shoulder and giggling.

Your stomach drops, your heart drops, your balls might have dropped a little bit more. Someone shoves into you and you yell a haphazard 'watch where the fuck you're going' before realizing you have been standing in the same spot. Just staring. Your voice sounds unusually high pitched to you. On the verge of tears, you pull out your cellphone to call Gamzee, watching as Dave is led into the store by the girl. She is lacing their fingers together.


End file.
